Truth
by navycorpsman
Summary: Taken from Todd's journal. Just a drabble. There's several drabbles, but they all beg to be their own stories...Follow up on PERFECT and TRAPPED and CARPE DIEM


**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters in this fic...If I DID own the characters, I'd have Charlie all to myself! And Neil would still be alive...and Charlie would be mine...and Mr. Keating would still have his job...and Charlie would be mine...and Chet Danbury would have his but kicked by Knox...and Charlie would be mine...and it would have been Cameron that would have been expelled...and Charlie would be mine...and Todd would have a back bone...and did I mention Charlie would be mine? I did? Oh...Okay! Well then. It's settled. Charlie would be mine if I owned the characters.**

**HOWEVER...I have this affinity for Todd Anderson and decided to every once in a while write a drabble from his 'journal'. Of course they'll be short. I sort of think these would be the words he'd write if he kept a journal. Hope you all enjoy!   
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As this school year goes on, I discover things that I'm not sure I want to know. I don't know. It's just...I find myself wishing more and more I could be like Neil. He's the one that everyone stops and listens to (well, maybe not everyone, but a good majority of people do.)

English, though it's my worst subject, has become a class I can't wait to attend. It's hard, considering it's the fifth class of the day, making it a very long rest of the day, but Mr. Keating has made it interesting. Like when he did John Wayne doing "MacBeth" or Marlon Brando doing "Caesar". I think we all got a laugh.

But, he's not just funny. He can be serious when he needs to be or even wants to be. Friday, he quoted Whitman: That the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse.

But, I don't have a verse to contribute. What good am I? I'm not good at much. However, if there was a class for the self-doubting, I'd easily ace that class. I'm not Jeffery and every time I open a book or take a test or anything, I am easily reminded of that.

Neil nabbed Mr. Keating's old yearbook at lunch last week and he decided to start the Dead Poets Society. This was sort of taken from Mr. Keating. "Women swooned and gods were created. Not a bad way to spend the evening?" I didn't have to talk to Neil to see that light going off in his eyes. He was thinking. He wanted something for himself. To so something that no one else wanted for him.

"I say we go tonight." Neil said it with such conviction that we all knew…well, he was serious. He wanted to do it. Never mind we had class in the morning. Neil wanted to. He had to coax a couple members, but Charlie Dalton was first in…it seemed to take off from there.

At study hall, Neil asked if I was going to join. I declined. "Keating said that everybody took turns reading and I don't want to do that."

"Gosh, you really have a problem with that, don't you?"

I argued I didn't…but the truth is I did. Talking in front of people…I'm not Jeffery.

(The more I write…the more I see what life as the younger sibling to a perfect older sibling has done. I find that it is me that compares myself to Jeffery a lot. If I do it, how many others do?)

I've never really been that comfortable talking in front of people. I'm naturally shy even around those I know, so in front of strangers? Sure, Neil and Charlie and Knox and Meeks and Pitts and Cameron are not strangers anymore…but Charlie and Neil…confidence seems to run out of their very being…drawing people to them. Knox…as neurotic as he is, I would not dare say he was not confident or sure of himself. He's who he is and he's okay with that.

Meeks, Pitts and Cameron all fall in the same category: Overly confident when around friends. Not the same level as Neil and Charlie or Knox…but a hell of a lot more confident than me.

I guess Neil really did ask if it was okay that I attend but not read because as we were getting ready for lights out, he patted my shoulder, pointed at me and in a comforting, yet demanding way says "You're in."

He didn't give me a choice. It's this…he…Neil is…he just quietly commands respect and everyone seems to…he's Jeffery. Just like Jeffery. Only, he's not my perfect older brother; he's my perfect best friend. And yet…despite _his_ perfection, he's never come down on me because of _my_ imperfections. He's the only one who's accepted me just as I am.

We held our meeting and were fairly tired, but we still stumbled through class. As usual, I was looking forward to English (If my parents ever knew…they'd be shocked, I guess) and without warning, Mr. Keating stands on his desk and asks us why he stands up there.

Charlie, of course, answers, "To feel taller."

Mr. Keating hit the bell on his desk with his foot. "Thank you for playing, Mr. Dalton. I stand upon my desk to remind myself that we must constantly look at things in a different way. You see, the world looks very different from up here. You don't believe me? Come see for yourself. Come on. Come on!"

We all take our turns and as we are standing in line and on the desk, Mr. Keating continues. "Boys, you must strive to find your own voice. Because the longer you wait to begin, the less likely you are to find it at all. Thoreau said, 'Most men lead lives of quiet desperation.' Don't be resigned to that. Break out!"

Easy to do when you're not held down by the image of a perfect older brother.

I'm the last one on the desk when Mr. Keating gives us our assignment for Monday's class. Now, in addition to your essays, I would like you to compose a poem of your own, an original work. That's right! You have to deliver it aloud in front of the class on Monday. Bonne chance, gentlemen." I'm just about to jump off the desk when he peeks back in the class. "Mr. Anderson, don't think that I don't know that this assignment scares the hell out of you, you mole."

He's right. It does. But, it doesn't matter. I can't write…I can't do it. But, I try, even though I know I'll fail.

Sitting on my bed and trying to write was hard enough and then Neil comes in and talks about A Midsummer Night's Dream, which he wants to do. He asks me if I'm going to the meeting…which of course I'm not…and he tells me that it's about being stirred up by things and I look as stirred up as a cess pool. Yet, when I offer to back out of the club, he smiles and says "No."

He then picks up my notebook and starts reading it. When I start to chase after him, he yelps "'We are dreaming of a…' Poetry! I'm being chased by Walt Whitman!" which makes me laugh, as I'm sure he intended and of course chaos ensues.

Well, that brings this journal current. I'm sitting in study hall…reveling in the afterglow of English. I know that I can write it word for word. Or, at least I'm sure I can.

I didn't do the assignment. I told him, but Mr. Keating said that I felt that everything inside of me was worthless (He's right, but I wouldn't tell him) and that he thinks I'm wrong. He thinks that there's something in me that's worth a great deal more. He scribbles "I sound my barbaric YAWP over the roofs of the world." (A reference to 'Uncle' Walt Whitman). He asks me to demonstrate a barbaric yawp, which I can't do. I'm too scared and I know I'll embarrass myself.

But he pushes until I finally explode: "YAWP!"

"There it is!" He keeps me from returning to my desk and asks me to describe what I see in Walt Whitman. He's not happy with my answer of 'a crazy madman' and pushes me until I tell him he looks like a 'sweaty toothed madman.' Mr. Keating smiles at me and goes "Good God boy! There's a poet in you after all!"

He then makes me close my eyes and describe what I see. I'm a little tentative, but something just clicks and it spills out before I can stop it.

"His hands reach out and choke me. And, and all the time he's mumbling. Mumbling, 'Truth. Truth is like, like a blanket that always leaves your feet cold.' You push it, stretch it, it'll never be enough. You kick at it, beat it, it'll never cover any of us. From the moment we enter crying to the moment we leave dying, it will just cover your face as you wail and cry and scream."

Mr. Keating placed his forehead against mine and tells me to never forget this. 

I don't think I can. For the first time, I felt like no one was expecting me to be Jeffery. I discovered a truth that I had never known: I matter to someone and that...that feels nice.


End file.
